There Must Be Real Gods See, The

A Slight Wind Shakes The Seed-pods My Thoughts Are Spent As The Black Seeds.

I Will Be Free, No Lover's Kiss To Bind Me To Earth, No Bliss Of Love To Counteract Actual Bliss.

The Heart The Heart The Heart How It Thrives On Hate.

The Stallion And His Mare, Unbridled, With Arrow-pattern, Are Worked On. The Blue Cloth Before The Door Of Religion And Inspiration.

Dead Men Would Start And Move Toward Me To Learn Of Love.